Road Trip

Would Anna have ever imagined the loving and sexual situations I'd already found myself in? Lauren had been sure I'd have sexual encounters along my route, why not Anna? What would she think of me if she knew?

I decided to stop somewhere on this leg of the trip and send Lauren an email describing my wild romp with the mother-daughter pair in Louisiana. I also needed to mention the erotic week I'd had in Alabama with Betty Sue and tell her how well my gunshot wounds were healing. I knew she'd be worried.

The more I drove, the longer my mental 'To Do' list became as I thought of other people I'd also promised to keep in touch with and a few things I wanted to pick up in a store for when I camped out that night. I sure didn't expect any sexually arousing situations to develop for a good long while. I thought of the past month as highly unusual and far from the norm for a mid-thirties guy riding a motorcycle around the countryside.

I decided to stop in northern Louisiana in a town named Ruston – a beautiful little place with almost as many churches as people. I wondered how they all survived. The town also had a French influence, indicated by some of the names written on mailboxes. I bought a diet coke and found a public library where I could establish a Wi-Fi connection. Instead of going inside, I parked my motorcycle under a shady tree against the building and sat on a bench outside. I didn't want an eager librarian looking over my shoulder as I wrote about my recent escapades.

Before I did anything, however, I found a website that would deliver flowers anywhere in the country. I sent a huge bouquet to Betty Sue. In the card, I said, 'Missing you. You're unforgettable. Love, Jim.' I had them sent to her at her office where she and one of her friends worked. I knew this would set her apart from the others in a special way. I sure hoped to see her again. I'd send flowers to Lacie and Lindy in a few days time.

I wrote Anna an email updating her on my health, my travels, and my plans as far as I'd planned ahead. My email to Lauren contained enough 'hot' material to melt the cables carrying the Internet. In writing her, I found myself aroused rethinking my night with Lindy and Lacie. Lauren had confessed to me earlier about some sapphic episodes with my wife when she was alive – sister and sister. I found that thought arousing too. I tried to imagine how Lauren would react to a mother-daughter act. I took great care describing both Lacie and Lindy, both highly attractive and desirable women. In doing that, I remembered to send Lacie an email asking her to let me know her legal fees for getting me out of jail. Despite our tryst, I intended to pay her in full for her legal services.

I emailed Andy Jefferson too, my friend in Alexandria, telling him he was 'more than right' about Attorney Lacie Landers. Being the almost perfect gentleman, I left out mention of Lindy and any details. Let him wonder what being 'more than right' actually meant.

About the time I finished my coke, I looked up from my shaded seat as a motorcycle rumbled by. Harley Davidson motorcycles have a unique and patented exhaust sound, particularly at low speeds. Many argue that the unique sound alerts other motorists and prevents accidents. Here, it alerted me that another Harley was passing by and that's why I looked.

I looked. I gaped. I could barely believe what I saw.

Not only was it a Harley – it was a motorcycle that looked nearly identical to mine in color and trim. Further, the man riding it was about my age, size, weight, hair color, and facial features. Wearing a headband and similar sunglasses, it would be hard to tell us apart.

I wondered if the rider could have been the man who knocked over the 7-11 stores in Alexandria. I had a sudden urge for vengeance; I wanted some compensation for the highly uncomfortable afternoon, night, and morning I'd spent in the Alexandria jail.

I briefly thought about how a criminal mind might think if they needed some money: travel well outside my usual turf – a hundred miles or more would be perfect, knock over a couple of convenience stores, and then come home. The fact that some 'innocent' got arrested because they looked like me would be fortuitous. I tried to push all those thoughts out of my head. I knew I could make up great stories based on no facts. All I'd seen was a similar motorcycle and a person riding it that sort of looked like me – any other conclusions were specious.

As the bike and rider passed out of sight from my shady bench, I leaped up and ran to the curbside so I could see where they went. The motorcycle continued north on Route 167. I was close enough to Interstate 20 to see that he didn't turn on either the eastbound or westbound ramps; he kept heading north, and then he was out of sight.

I went back to my bench in the shade and looked up the phone number for the Alexandria, Louisiana Police Department. I called in on the non-emergency number from my cell phone and asked for either Detective Roux or Fournier – the two men that I'd talked to during my arrest and the two that had ultimately released me after they'd checked out my alibis.

"Roux here!"

"Detective Roux, this is Jim Mellon. I ... well, you arrested me two days ago and then ..."

"Yes, yes, I know who you are? What's up?"

"This may sound silly, but I'm north of you in Ruston ... and, well, I just saw my clone – a guy who looks a lot like me on a nearly identical motorcycle. I wanted you to know."

"Hummm. Where is he now?"

I felt stupid, but replied anyway: "Last I saw him, he was riding north through Ruston on U.S. 167. I ... lost sight of him."

"Well, Ruston's a little outside our jurisdiction, but if you see the guy again ... and can safely tie down where he lives or works, I'd appreciate you letting us know. Please don't get involved; let the police handle this."

I acknowledged his suggestion and ended the call. Hopefully, I'd put the seed of an idea out in the Universe to grow and fester in Roux's head. Something might come of it.

When the call ended, my pulse had returned to normal. I collected my laptop and notebook, and walked back to my motorcycle that had been hidden in the shade. After I stowed my gear, I headed north on the highway again.

As I came into El Dorado, Arkansas, I started looking for the motorcycle shop I'd looked up on the Internet. I wanted a seat cover for the Harley that wouldn't heat up to boiling sitting in the sun the way my leather seat did.

A short distance after I turned west on Main Street I saw the cycle store. More surprising, parked in front of it, almost as if it were on display, was the near duplicate of my machine – the one I'd seen earlier.

I made a split-second decision and turned away from the Cycle Shop. A diner sat across the street, so I turned into their parking lot and put my motorcycle in the far back of the lot under a shade tree so it couldn't be seen from the street.

So I could watch, I went into the diner and ordered a diet coke from a pretty waitress, the only worker in the diner. I had a perfect view of the shop across the street. A few minutes later the man who looked like me came out of the store. He had a rag and a can of polish; he wiped down the motorcycle, shined up the chrome, and removed specs of dirt here and there on the machine. He rolled the motorcycle over and parked it with some others that were for sale. Could it be that he worked there?

When the waitress passed by, I flagged her down, smiled, and asked her about the shop across the street: how long had it been there, did she know anyone who worked there, were their prices any good, did they carry parts?

She answered with a sneer, "I don't know about some of that, but two brothers own the place; you'd think they own the whole town the way they carry on. They come in here and bother the other customers. They're bullies."

I noticed how cute the petite waitress was as she talked. She stood by the table wearing a plain gingham dress with a white apron, and her blond hair up in a hairnet. Her face had a scowl on it as she talked about the brothers.

I asked, "They pick on you particularly?"

"Yep," She responded with a toss of her pretty head. "But I spilled hot coffee in Darren's lap one time; I put really hot pepper in John's burger to put him in his place too. Now, they go elsewhere most of the time – thank goodness." She looked smug.

Just then my doppelganger again came out in front of the store to attend to one of the other parked bikes. I gestured at the guy and asked her: "Which one's that? Do you think we look alike?"

She did a double take between the two of us and said, "That's Darren, and you do look similar. John's much older by way. You're not related, are you?"

"No, no," I assured her. "I was just curious. I saw him riding by earlier and wondered."

She accepted my assurances, and then went to wait on one of the other customers.

Since the diner had Wi-Fi, I brought in my computer, ordered a late lunch, and began my stakeout of Darren. I even managed to take a couple of photographs of my double with my iPhone as he paced around the parking lot in front of his shop.

By three o'clock, I was the only patron at the diner. The pretty waitress came by and said playfully, "You should start working here, you've spent almost as much time here today as I have. We do need help, you know."

I gave her a big grin, she inspired that kind of response, "I don't know; so how about you tell me about it." I thought about hanging around town to see if I could catch my lookalike in a criminal act. It was dangerous I knew, but I was really pissed at the guy for making me spend a night in jail.

She got serious for a minute; "We need a counterman – someone who can cook and serve as well. The guy we had quit two weeks ago, and I've been trying to do it all. Daddy used to do it – he still owns this place, but he's the mayor now and doesn't even think about this place except to come by and mooch a free cup of coffee occasionally."

"I can help you out for a few days until you find a permanent person. I worked in a deli just after I graduated high school so I know a little about what you need, but that was a long time ago. In the long term though, I'm just passing through on a road trip."

She asked eagerly, "Can you start right now?"

"Sure, why not?"

We introduced ourselves more formally to each other: Jim and Pat. She gave me the nickel tour of the place, showed me where various food items were kept, explained about the register, and talked about my hours and pay. She talked a mile a minute and covered all these things in about two minutes.

Next I knew, I had on a golf shirt that said 'El Dorado Diner' on the pocket, a white apron, and my own Boston Red Sox baseball cap. I was 'official.' Customers started to come in for the Early Bird Specials or to get a bite to eat before going on the next shift at the timber mill down the road. I served everyone as fast as I could, treating him or her the way I'd want to be treated if I were a customer.

Pat would stop now and then and make a suggestion, or nudge me to a customer that needed something. By eight o'clock, when the diner closed, I was tired. I hadn't worked for almost six months. At least I'd kept up with the dirty dishes part of the time, so the pile wasn't too daunting when I went to clean up.

"What time do you open?" I asked.

Pat said, "Six a.m. I open, close, and work all day – fourteen hours. This is my life right now – Monday to Saturday midday."

I thought of a million things I could have said about that, but I bit my tongue and just nodded. Instead I said, "If I can camp out behind here, in that small clearing behind this place, I can be at work on time."

Pat gave me a funny look. She asked, "You mean you want to sleep out in the back and help me open up – at six in the morning? None of our countermen ever helped open up." I nodded. She said, "OK with me. I'll leave the back door unlocked so you can use the bathroom or if you want a midnight snack." She laughed at her last remark.

"You're trusting. You barely know me."

"I think I'm a good judge of character," She said with a laugh and toss of her head. "Don't disappoint me now, you hear?"

I not only was at work on time, I had the place open and running when Pat came in the door at five minutes of six. She looked surprised but didn't say anything; I had six customers at the counter, and bacon, sausage, and eggs on the grill. Later, she took great delight in teaching a northern boy how to cook grits.

One new thing I learned as I frequently looked across the street at Darren's Cycle Shop was that Darren used the Harley that looked like mine to get around, although it was for sale along with several other bikes.

About ten o'clock in the morning, I took a break, and called Detective Roux again. Now, I could tell him where 'my' suspect worked – and by a check of his street address in telephone book, where he lived. I also told Roux that I'd taken a part-time job across the street from the Cycle Shop. Roux admonished me for staying involved, but nonetheless sounded relieved that he'd gotten some sort of break in the case. He asked that I call him back in mid-afternoon; he wanted to think about what I'd told him and talk to some colleagues. As agreed, I emailed him one of the snapshots I'd taken of Darren too.

After the lunch crowd thinned, I re-called Roux. He told me to expect a small package at the diner by FedEx first thing the next morning. He also gave me some detailed instructions, and we talked about how to conduct a small 'Special Ops' task that would help the police. Just thinking about taking action that would compensate for my night in jail gave me a jolt of energy.

Pat noticed my overt curiosity with the cycle shop too.

Pat and I started a little repartee as we worked – tossing comments, compliments, sarcastic remarks, and quips at each other as we passed by. Most of our comments were out of earshot of the customers. There were little things said like: "That's a darling hairnet you're wearing; where do you get these cute little white aprons; didn't the Red Sox 'not' win anything significant for almost a hundred years?"

Towards late afternoon, Pat surprised me by upping the ante – things got subtly physical. Behind the counter, there suddenly wasn't enough room for her to pass by me without sliding her butt against mine; or when I'd done a good job on something, along with the compliment I also got a pat on my fanny – and later, when no one was around, a quick kiss on my cheek. I accused her of being an outrageous flirt, a point she didn't argue.

We also had a more serious conversation that lasted all day between the other banter. We learned a lot about each other, but questions and answers, and parts of answers, were often separated by many minutes as we waited on customers or worked on some culinary delight in the kitchen. We worked well together. I could tell I made it fun for Pat to be at work: yesterday I had sensed drudgery; today I sensed enthusiasm for life and work. She smiled more.

I kept up with the dishes better on my second day, so by closing time there was little for either of us to do. After closing up, Pat came out and saw my camping arrangement. She asked what I did when it rained; I explained about my tarp. She also asked about my showers, a polite way to inquire about my cleanliness I presumed. I explained I'd spent considerable time in the diner's washroom before opening. I also told her I thought I would put myself through the dishwashing machine after she went home – a remark that earned me a playful punch in the arm.

Just before Pat turned to go home for the night, she gave me a serious kiss on the lips – a kiss more significant than the earlier peck on the cheek for a job well done. And then, she turned to her car and left.

I yelled after her, "FLIRT!"

I caught up with my journal that night, sitting in my makeshift tent and madly typing away for an hour. I thought about Karen, my late wife. Somehow, with the internal excitement about this guy Darren and my fascination with Pat, it didn't seem like anywhere near El Dorado would be a good place to spread some of her ashes or even meditate. My brain was a jumble on too many other things.

My internal dialogue about my sexuality continued to rage in my head: how I hadn't been 'open' to hearing about a significant part of Karen's sexuality, the affection of her sister for me, the serial loving of the three women in Pennsylvania, all that Kim had taught me – and the implications of that body of knowledge in terms what I hadn't learned up to that point, the assignation with Betty Sue, and then the playful session with Lacie and Lindy – the mother-daughter combo! I thought of Lauren's prediction about having a sex-filled trip too; how had she known?

In the diner that first full day, whenever someone wanted pie a la mode with vanilla ice cream, I'd reach into the vanilla carton in the freezer and think about my sex life: Mr. Plain Vanilla. Ugh! How could I have remained so naïve until my fucking mid-thirties? I bet Karen knew more about sex and making love when she was fifteen than I did until I met Kim and she took me under her wing ... and into her bed for her class sessions.

At eight o'clock the next morning the FedEx deliveryman came into the diner and had me sign for an express package from the Alexandria Police Department. I opened it immediately and inside found two electronic devices – one large and one small. Detective Roux had sent me a miniature global positioning system or GPS data recorder on a magnetic mount, and a slightly larger device with a small directional antenna that could wirelessly interrogate and download the data from the GPS recorder provided you were within one hundred feet of the smaller device. My 'Special Ops' job today that I'd talked to Roux about involved secretly placing the GPS gadget on Darren's motorcycle without being detected or having the device found later by him.

Things slowed down at the diner after nine o'clock, and by ten thirty I felt I could take a break. I asked Pat to cover for me while I ran an errand. She agreed, yet I could tell curiosity nearly overwhelmed her.

I went out the back entrance of the diner, cut behind some of the stores next door to the diner, and walked down the street away from the Cycle Shop. When I got nearly out of sight, I crossed the street, and walked back to Darren's motorcycle dealership. I palmed the device and as I approached the store. I made a beeline for Darren's motorcycle – the one that looked like mine. In two seconds, I'd attached the tracking device to the inside of one of the rear struts. The clearance to the tire and chain was only about a quarter of an inch; I worried that the tracker would fall off if the cycle hit a hard bump; however, it was out of sight unless one did a careful search.

I continued to fawn over the motorcycle, only now standing back and admiring the machine from a distance to reduce suspicion that I'd done anything to the bike in case Darren had been looking outside. About a minute later, Darren came out of the store with a smile and a handshake. "Hi there. Great morning for a motorcycle ride, isn't it? You interested in this baby?" Darren patted the handgrip on the bike nearest him.

I shifted my interest to the next motorcycle in line, and replied from my position about ten feet away from the bike, "Nah, I was just passing by and saw this beauty – had to take a look. What are you asking for it?"